Only a Dream Left in This World

Diana didn't come home for three days. We had officially entered a suffocating cold war, our communication completely dead.

That silence broke when her secretary sent me a text, telling me that Diana's chronic gastritis was flaring up and that she had been breaking out in cold sweats during the board meeting.

I stared at the message for a long time.

Diana's stomach issues were severe. For years, I had been the one meticulously managing her diet. Every time she had an attack, I would spend hours standing over the stove to simmer stomach-soothing soup.

In the clash between my fading dignity and 20 years of deep-rooted devotion, habit won. I spent the afternoon cooking, packed the warm soup into a thermos, and drove straight to her office.

The moment I stepped off the elevator onto the executive floor, the atmosphere shifted. The employees avoided my eyes, some catching their breath as if they wanted to warn me about something, only to swallow their words and look away.

When my hand touched the doorknob of Diana's office, the sound of bright, unfiltered laughter drifted through the wood. Looking through the gaps in the blinds, I saw her sitting remarkably close to another person.

As soon as I pushed the door open, the two snapped their heads toward the entrance. Diana immediately pulled back, clearing her throat awkwardly. "Pierre? What brings you here?"

I didn't answer, my gaze landing straight on the nervous man. Up close, Tyler looked young, barely 19, while Diana was more than a decade his senior.

The guy was sunny and sharp.

My gaze dropped to the desk where sat a bowl of seafood oatmeal.

Diana was an incredibly picky eater who despised seafood—a visceral aversion that hadn't changed once in the two decades I had known her. Yet, she had already eaten a significant portion of the bowl he brought.

The sight hurt me deeply, but I kept my expression neutral as I walked over, picked up the bowl, and dropped it into the trash can.

Diana's face fell instantly, while Tyler pressed his lips together in a display of silent grievance.

"How long has this been going on?" I asked, placing my thermos on the desk.

My tone was casual, as if I were talking about the weather.

"Pierre, what is wrong with you?" Diana snapped, surging to her feet.

Tyler waved his hands frantically. "Sir, you've misunderstood! Diana helped me out in the past. When I heard her stomach was killing her today, I just wanted to return the favor. I didn't mean to..."

"You have a cat?" I cut him off, my voice flat. "We don't keep pets because of my rhinitis. Yet, lately, I've been picking cat hairs off the cuffs of her clothes while doing the laundry.

"And I looked up that white bear pendant on her keys. It's a couple's set. And yesterday, I found a stray lighter wedged down the side of her passenger seat. I don't smoke."

A sharp crack echoed through the office, cutting my words short.

A sharp, burning pain exploded across my cheek. I ran my tongue against the inside of my lip, the metallic taste of blood immediately filling my mouth.

Diana's chest heaved with ragged breaths. She yanked Tyler behind her back, her voice pitching into a defensive shriek.

"Are you done?" she glared. "My family took you in. We fed and sheltered you! Do you honestly think you've earned the right to act like my keeper?

"I already told you nothing is going on. Tyler is just a friend, but you just won't stop pushing!"

In her blind, escalating fury, she grabbed the thermos and hurled the contents at me. The scalding liquid splattered across my forearms and hands.

Painful blisters rose on my skin within seconds. I clenched my fists, the physical agony of the burns blurring into the emotional wreckage of her words.

I couldn't tell which part of me was hurting worse.

The loud shattering of the thermos and the shouting brought the outside office to a dead halt. Dozens of employees were now staring through the glass partition.

Diana froze, a flash of sudden regret crossing her face as she instinctively reached toward her desk drawer for burn ointment.

But Tyler chose that exact moment to bow deeply. "I'm so sorry, sir. This is all my fault. Diana and I are completely innocent. Please, don't ruin your marriage over me."

With that single sentence, the guilt in Diana's eyes evaporated, instantly replaced by a cold, protective anger. She stopped looking for the medicine and pointed a shaking finger at the door.

"Get out!" she hissed. "This is a place of business, not your stage."

My face throbbed, and my hands burned like fire. I walked out of the building in a daze, the judgmental whispers of her staff following me with every step.

Diana's secretary caught up with me, her expression a mask of forced corporate formality.

"Ms. Grant just issued an official directive. Moving forward, you are prohibited from entering the corporate property without her authorization. Your facial recognition profile and digital keycards have already been wiped from the security database."